


Glittering Blackness

by TheLiminality



Series: Explosions [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Illness, Platonic Relationships, talks of addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLiminality/pseuds/TheLiminality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock knew these moods from many miles away. He would fall into himself, never hitting bottom, but losing himself in the depths of connective tissue and marrow. He did not know, however, to bring himself out of these moods. Years ago, before the work. Before he made a friend, his light was one that was produced in a seven percent solution. Or morphine stolen from the closest A&E department. One to rise above himself. One to finally land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glittering Blackness

**Author's Note:**

> Second part of the Explosions series. They are all stand alone pieces. 
> 
> I wrote this while listening to Glittering Blackness - Explosions In The Sky
> 
> Listen while you read here; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jt2qgJt93Y0
> 
> The song is five minutes and thirty one seconds. It took me that long to complete this fic.

Sherlock knew these moods from many miles away. He would fall into himself, never hitting bottom, but losing himself in the depths of connective tissue and marrow. He did not know, however, to bring himself out of these moods. Years ago, before the work. Before he made a friend, his light was one that was produced in a seven percent solution. Or morphine stolen from the closest A&E department. One to rise above himself. One to finally land. It was, as so many told him, a combination of chemicals that was much better suited for living through chemistry. And (He thinks. On certain days. On days like this.) why did I listen? Why did I fall into the trap of sobriety to fool connections I can’t even weld together with my mind?

Though then, he didn't have much to live for. That is why these black moods made sense then. When he had something tangible to apply these moods to. Withdrawals, (mental) illness, blood. Now they just waft through the window on days he does not expect them. Consuming everything in it’s path. Even a final sense of calm. Of peace. There was no more light for him. Sherlock could not pinpoint what could guide him out of the hole of himself. No one ever reached. No one ever worked as his signal fire, his smoke signal. He was, as he was used to, constantly alone. 

“Sherlock,” That’s John’s voice, Sherlock thinks. No. Knows, he knows. He could hone in on that voice in mere seconds. The voice is soft. Echoing. And yet, still. Steady. Sherlock nearly expects to be shouted at. Scolded for what appears to be blatant laziness. If people see what they want to see people see Sherlock as a man who is far too insane to exist within the society he so happens to thrive in. In his own way. But the scolding never comes. Harsh words from a harsh tongue never amount, simply mirages in his head. Instead, he feels a warm hand through his curls. His body adjusting and molding against someone (John) with faux practiced ease. And he doesn't fight the affections. Even if he wanted to, there was nothing he could do to keep falling.

Falling.  
Falling.

But. There is no more movement. No more falling through the voids of himself over and over again. Instead of pain shaking his bones, Sherlock feels warm and sturdy fingers. Instead of cold sweats, Sherlock feels the warmth of a blanket. Of another (body). Instead of no end, Sherlock feels still.  
“It’s dark.” He says. Words misting out over a light room. This could be said as a description of his mind. Or as a warning. Which; he is not truly sure. If he could warn John to run, he would (has).  
“I know.” John says, his fingers lacing with his friends. All they ever were and ever will be. Friends. As close as they can get without their bones melding together. “You’re always dark.”. The statement is followed by fingers against Sherlock’s cheek bone. Into the mess of errant curls and cooling sweat. He supposes he could agree. The world in which they occupy (their reality) forces them to live in the dark. Forces them to see the bitterness in cruelty that exists among the decreasing humanity. It is very hard to stay light when your world is so twisted and stained copper with blood.  
“But,” John says, Just above a whisper, “There is a glittering darkness about you. You never get lost too long, do you?”  
Sherlock doesn't really understand. Though, in the end, when he is alone (together. John.) he has a light.

Within himself (John)  
There is his signal fire.  
His smoke signals.  
His savior.  
His light.


End file.
